


Blow Hot, Blow Cold

by marcasite



Series: The Chemistry of Us [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kissing, Series, Start of Series 9, series 8, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marcasite/pseuds/marcasite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He leans away from her, releasing his arms and dragging them to his sides. She already misses him, misses the warmth of his body on hers and shivers. She’s not sure if her crossed arms were to retain some of the warmth he had left behind or to brace herself for what she knew was coming next.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blow Hot, Blow Cold

**Author's Note:**

> This was a small ficlet written for Antennapedia's whouffaldi first kiss challenge. Set during Series 8 and kind of implies the beginning of Series 9. I think Danny was such a nice guy and a part of me thinks Clara didn't really deserve him. 
> 
> This is part of my Chemistry of US series and could be seen as more of prelude to the first part.

He doesn’t realize it, or maybe he does, but she lives for the accidental touches.

The ones that are few and far in between. He flinches away at her touch, pushes away her hugs.

She’s persistent. 

For a time.

It isn’t until she’s abandoned, left behind scared that she swears it’s over. Swears that she would move on, enough is enough. This craving inside of her would subside. 

She doesn’t ask herself to define that craving. 

 

+

 

Danny knows better.

They have dinner and she thinks that they might have laughed, too. Her mood flat and broken by what is missing. He lets her leave with a kiss and smile and she goes home to her flat.

She stares at the door.

His heart is too wide and she is too hollow.

 

+

 

 **ad·dic·tion** : (–noun) the state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming.

Let’s explain.

She’s starting again.

 

+

 

It’s a night in with Danny, again. 

His smile is bright and she flinches, over wine, when _clara_ becomes concern. 

And they become a pattern.

She refuses to call it a habit but the truth is, the only habit she has is lying.

 

+

 

“There is no problem,” Clara said, and meets his eyes. Mistake. Those eyes, bright and level, made her breathing come from deep inside her. He stood very still as the blood rises in her face, and she said, “I’m fine,” but it came out faintly, on a breath, and the moment stretched out into a hot empty eternity before he shakes his head.

“Hell.”

They were always going to meet this way.

He stepped toward her, and something gave inside her and she met him halfway, in the middle of the Tardis console room, clutching at his shoulders as he slid his hand around her waist, bumping noses with him as went she went up on her toes and he bent down, down, down and finally, finally, tasting him as his mouth found hers.

Clara held on as he kissed her, clutching at his shirt to bring him closer, and when she broke the kiss, he ran his hands over her, tracing heat, until she was breathless. 

He kisses her again.

For a brief, split second she starts to unravel in second thoughts and uneasiness. But his mouth is too warm and her hand stretching to cup his jaw. It doesn’t matter, this or them, but she’s kissing him and he’s kissing her back. The line, over and over again, screams in her head and she slides her tongue inside his mouth, a subsequent growl from him skimming against her lips. 

The line. 

“What are we doing?” She breathes.

But he’s kissing her again, probably to shut her up. She can’t help herself and she only wants to press herself closer so she does. His arm is sliding around her waist and he’s pulling at her. He’s indulging. She’s indulging. They’re indulging. And it isn’t supposed to be like this. For them.

His teeth tug at her lip and she sighs, pressing her mouth over his again as his fingers slip under her shirt and sweep over her skin, leaving chills in their wake. Her head is feeling heavy as her fingers grazes over his cheek. Her thumb sweeps underneath his chin and the gesture is suddenly a little too close; he’s breaking away before she realizes it, breathless and confused.

“I never know which way the wind is blowing with you, Clara,” his eyes are dark, his gaze hooded.

“Shut up.” But there’s no heat behind her words and she sort of just relents herself into the moment.

“There’s PE,” he says.

Her eyes darken. “Stop it.”

He leans away from her, releasing his arms and dragging them to his sides. She already misses him, misses the warmth of his body on hers and shivers. She’s not sure if her crossed arms were to retain some of the warmth he had left behind or to brace herself for what she knew was coming next.

But there’s nothing.

He has already moved on, pulling levers and she knows where they will end up.

 

+

 

Has it always been a game? What were the mechanics of the game? What were the rules?

Who are the players?

Why are they playing?

 

+

 

Danny was right.

He was always right and her guilt bears down on her, weighs her, and threatens to break her.

She misses him keenly.

_when the water runs dry_

 

+

 

The line.

She crossed it before losing Danny.

Crosses it again when she betrays the Doctor.

Is there a point to the line anymore?

 

+

 

She likes the taste of him. He's been in his scotch. Only a little, since it's faint. But it’s him. 

His hands are hot on her back, under her sweater. She thinks, _yes_ , and pulls his shirt free (that gorgeous coat already long gone) so she can slide her hands up his back and touch him, too, making him draw in his breath and then kiss her harder. 

She takes his face in her hands and kisses him again, and he holds her as if he were never going to let her go, his hands on her everywhere, kissing her for long minutes until she is dizzy and aching. 

“Which way are the winds blowing today, Clara?” His breath is hot against her face, flushed.

They never seem to move in the direction she needs them to.

Her breath escapes on a sigh. 

 

+

 

This is dangerous, don’t you know? 

When it started, it was about a new way of life, breathing and passing fancies. She knew then, way way way back then, that it was that and that alone.

But then this what it is now; thick and binding— god, if only they weren’t. Is it unnecessarily dangerous to spare and separate herself from this, she wonders?

But he knows. He always knows. And it frustrates her that all the men in her life seem to know. But they rotate, here, in these sentiments.

So it leads them another moment:

“Today?”

There’s a sadness to her smile and maybe she knows.

She watches him as he twists one hand into the other and she cranes her neck up to look in his eyes. Eyes that wander around the room aimlessly. Anywhere but at her. 

She doesn’t push for an answer.  
And then suddenly he leans forward, his mouth grazing hers. For a second.

After a beat:

“No,” he breathes.

 

+

 

Now we know the rules of the game:

Teach me to fall. Let me learn to love. The line always there.

His smile is more smirk. And she knows where they are going. Finally.

It’s why they play the game, don’t you see?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read and I recommend you check out everyone's stories for this challenge!


End file.
